Stockholm Syndrome
by Chocolate Smile
Summary: Stockholm Syndrome. The psychological tendency of a hostage to bond with, identify with, or sympathize with his or her captor. [ONESHOT] [MANGAVERSE] [MIDVALLEYxMERYL]


Stockholm Syndrome

By Lauren Ashley "AngelSakura Wolfwood" --------

Trigun/Trigun Maximum © Yasuhiro Nightow

I went and visited the Beast's little plaything again, later that night. She's an interesting one. Stood off in the shadows for a while watching her stomp around and grumble to herself like an imprisoned animal. It didn't look like she intended to settle down any time soon, so I fixed another drink and approached her.

"Hey, Midget," I addressed her. "How're you this fine evening?"

She started slightly, then turned to face me cautiously.

"I am no midget."

"Sure you are." I twirled the glass and studied her small frame. "I'm something like six foot and you can't be less than a foot shorter than me. And you're what, twenty-five?"

"Twenty-three."

"Oh-ho, excuse me." That perpetual formal tone was the slightest bit irritating. "Too bad you're in that cage, or we could have a little fun to take your mind off the circumstances. Unless the Beast already has?"

She scowled. "That child, whom I assume you are referring to with 'the Beast', has not touched me. He has not even opened the cage. You possess a very dirty mind, Mr.—"

"Call me the Hornfreak," I provided, amused. She grimaced very slightly. "Oh, now who's dirty-minded? I play the sax, for your information."

Turning away to face the corner, I heard her mutter sarcastically, "And women love musicians..."

"Sure do in my experience." I grinned at her, although she couldn't see it. "There was this little sweetheart from Inepril last month—"

"Let me be," came her voice, a mix of dejection and disgust. "I do not want to hear about you and your sex life. Since the moment I awakened in this place, all the people I have met are freaks..."

"Freaks, freak, freaks, around here," I sighed, half-sincere. "Lemme tell you, Midget, it wears on your nerves. But it's not like the rest of us get breaks. You're nobody special."

She turned again and drew herself up to her unimpressive full height, stating, "I am Meryl Stryfe of the Bernardelli Insurance Agency, Second City December."

"So?"

She fell silent. I barely restrained a smirk.

"Besides, I would've thought you'd be used to freaks, what with that blonde monster of a boyfriend you travel with."

She flinched, but remained silent.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did that hit a sore spot?"

"It is...none of your business."

"Aww." Figuring I had no other way to kill time, I sat down on the ground with my back to the cage, careful not to get my jacket dirtier than I could help. "Oh well. You won't have to worry about it soon enough. If you ever get back to him, you'll definitely get killed. For that matter, I'll be dead soon too. We all will." I smiled despite myself. "Funny, isn't it, Midget?"

"You are very apathetic," she said simply.

"Is that so?" I saw a window of opportunity. "C'mere, lemme tell you something. No, closer."

With some effort, I kissed her through the bars. She jerked back like she'd been burned and glared at me as she wiped her mouth. If looks could kill, she would've done thirty for that one.

"How's that for apathetic, Midget?"

She struggled with words for a minute and decided against any more wounds to her dignity, just staring. I took her meaning and pouted into the indeterminate darkness of the base.

"God, it gets lonely in this nuthouse," I remarked presently.

"Regardless, that does not give you leave to—to—do that," she ended lamely.

Ignoring this, I voiced my thoughts. "Aren't you just a little scared, Midget? You're locked up in a place you've never been, and I can personally tell you that all the residents are men. We could kill you, rape you, whatever we want."

"I have sufficient means to defend myself," she said, sounding slightly unsure of herself.

"You go on thinking that." I sighed. "To tell you the truth, I don't care for this godforsaken place either. It's so freaking cold, all the time."

"You are scared, are you not, of your fate, Mr. Hornfreak."

"Let's say I am. What would you do?"

"Attempt to comfort you."

"Hmm." I felt her hand on mine on the ground. "Oh, how very cliché. What's it called when a hostage bonds with the captor?"

"Stockholm Syndrome," she said dryly. "You have a way of killing the mood."

"Does it matter right now? I'm lonely, you're scared, whether you admit it or not...but we're at least together now."

"Good night, Mr. Hornfreak," she said presently, after thinking this over.

"Call me Midvalley," I yawned, eyes already closed.


End file.
